Marshall University Plane Crash: A Look Back Part II

Friday, November 14th, will mark the 44th Anniversary of the plane crash that killed most of the Marshall football team, members of the coaching staff, a number of university administrators, fans and the entire crew of Southern Airways Flight 932. There were no survivors. In all, seventy-five people lost their lives on that hillside in Kenova, WV.

For the remainder of the week, HerdNation will look back on the disaster that has defined Marshall University and the community surrounding it through articles and media coverage from the days after the accident.

These two articles originally ran in the Huntington Herald-Advertiser on November, 15th 1970...

'Sons Of Marshall' They Will Always Be

And, The Green Bus Pulled Away...Empty

By David S. McGuire

The chartered bus, striped prominently with its bright green, stood empty, still and useless.

The night, befittingly, was miserable.

A chilly wind swept first a drizzle, then a steady rain and finally a few drops on the bus, parked in front of the operatings building at Tri-State Airport.

Grimly but efficiently, airport personnel went about their work.

At first there was bewilderment at word of the crash. Then the terrible shock. Finally the incomprehensible grief that overshadows nearly everything when the "Why?" can't be answered.

Authorities called waiting relatives and friends into a room off the terminal lobby and later took families and relatives to the West Virginia Air National Guard Armory where a temporary morgue was set up in the hangar.

Strict security measures were imposed.

All incoming highway traffic was stopped. Those without official business were not allowed to turn off Walker Branch Road onto the airport road. Only law enforcement officers, National Guardsmen, relatives and others having official business were allowed to take the road leading from the terminal building to the Armory.

A coed wearing a white jacket with the green Marshall University lettering on back walked toward the bank of four pay phones which were all busy. She stopped, turned away, retraced her step and stopped against a pole. Red-eyed and weeping, she bit her fingers and waited her turn.

A few Marshall students wearing fraternity jackets hunched in their chairs while cradling their faces. One had tears streaming down his face.

On the walkway between the terminal and the gates, a cluster of people stood talking in hushed tones.

The lower building was a maze of activity, although traffic into the port was cancelled.

One passerby ducked into the ground floor at the tower and flatly said, "Yes, I was over there. Bodies are stacked over there in one big heap, all charred. There can't be anyone alive."

Charles Dodrill, Airport Authority president, was busy in the operations building talking on a telephone. "No, there isn't anything official yet," he commented at 9:35 p.m. "Word of the casualties, of course, will have to come from Southern Airways," he answered.

Moments later, word came that state police said there were no survivors.

Outside, the rain picked up in tempos and the wind felt chillier, much chillier.

And there was the bus, idling after the driver became cold, idling almost like a drum roll in slow motion.

Soon, the driver reappeared and asked if he were free to go. "An Army officer told me to stand by in case there were any survivors. I called the office and they said for me to shuttle survivors to the hospital," he explained.

"Well, in that case, you are free to go," he was told.

Silently, he turned and walked toward the bus.

The almost military cadence of the engine brought to mind the Marshall Fight Song.

There were no Sons of Marshall aboard when the green-striped bus pulled slowly away.

Nevertheless, there were truly Sons of Marshall. Gone, yes, but still Sons of Marshall.

Sobs, Anguish Pierce Cold, Rainy Night At Marshall U.

By Jack Seamonds

It was a rainy, cold night at Marshall University.

The first thing that hit you, that brought the story home, was the cries of those being treated by doctors for shock. Mattresses were lined up on the floor in Gullickson Hall, and students milled around the building in small groups, asking the fearful questions, "Is he, was he" "Were there any survivors...?" "And his wife, too?"

Two students carried a girl, limp and moaning, into the auditorium, where she was treated for shock. Hospital partitions shielded the victims of shock from prying eyes. But they failed to stop the sobs, the anguished cries. On heard the scream, "Alex, come back...Alex, please come back." And the listener was overcome with nausea.

Coeds were passing out coffee to the students, and athletic officials were busy trying to locate those rumored not to have been on the plane. And they were praying.

Names were mentioned...Morehouse...Tolley...and on and on...and always the fear kept coming back...Were they on the plane?

Across campus, a memorial service was underway in the Campus Christian Center. Seven MU ministers and some 400 MU students offered their prayer for the victims of the crash.

The service opened with a mournful, pensive African folk song, "Kumbaya."

"Someone's singing Lord, Kumbaya...Someones hurting Lord, Kumbaya...someone's praying, Lord, Kaumbaya [sic]." The lyrics filtered through the crowd, and no one dared not sing. And still the tears came.

And then the prayers. "They, those who have been so dear to us, have so soon passed by. He is watching us. He is here with us. He is binding us together. And the Lord shall watch over them, as they enter the Kingdom of Heaven." The ominous "Amen" was punctuated by the wailing of a siren on Fifth Ave.

A light, cold rain fell on the students, faculty and staff as they left the chapel. And the tears, the sobs, began anew.

"God, what has happened...what has happened," sobbed a red-eyed coed as she walked slowly back to her dormitory room.

Archival Footage